Good night, Hershey

When Caramel the Hamster died in May of 2006, I wasn't sure we were going to replace her. At the time, we'd had eight hamsters in as many years (their normal life span is 2-3 years, but we had to learn the hard way that since they can catch colds from people, it probably isn't a good idea to take the little fluffballs to preschool for Pet Day), and I was ready for a break.

A week or so after she died, I needed to go to the pet store to get more food for the guinea pigs. I was NOT, I told myself, going to look at the baby hamsters. No siree, bub. I was there for pig food, nothing more and nothing less. With a dog and two guinea pigs in the house, the last thing I needed was one more creature to take care of.

I think the owners of the pet shop must rub their hands in glee when they see me coming. I hadn't been in the store 10 seconds before I'd told them about Caramel's passing, accepted their condolences, and taken them up on their offer to show me the baby hamsters they'd gotten in just that week. They were cute all right, dozing in a downy heap in the corner of their cage. But ah, I said regretfully, they're all male. Our favorite hamsters have been females, so we had planned to replace Caramel with another female when the time came. Which wasn't, for the record, happening today. I was JUST LOOKING.

"Would you mind an older hamster?" the store clerk asked. "We aren't going to be getting any more babies in for a while, but we did just have a hamster returned. She's really sweet ... the previous owners said she bit, but she's really easy to handle."

She lowered her voice confidentially. "I don't think she ever bit anyone. After we said we'd take her back their son said that he didn't want her anymore because he didn't like the color of her fur."

I looked at the hamster. I picked her up and stroked her fur with my index finger. She seemed nice enough.

"Does she have a name?" I asked.

"They called her Hershey," the clerk replied.

That was all I needed to hear. And when I went I home and told the kids the sorry tale, they were as outraged as I. Poor, sweet hamster, rejected for nothing more than the color of her fur, left to languish in the pet shop, alone and unloved. And she already had a candy name ... clearly, she was meant to be a member of our family. We should rescue her! they agreed.

So we did. And for two and a half years, Hershey was the best sort of hamster. She let the kids drive her about the house in a Barbie car. She entertained us by scaling the sides of her cage with an agility that a Flying Wallenda would envy. She adored snacking on the core of a green pepper.

And she never, ever bit.


Hershey died in her sleep some time Tuesday night. She was probably about three years old ... she'd slowed down considerably over the past months, and while we were saddened by her passing it wasn't unexpected.

True to form, Eldest wanted to wait a while before getting a new hamster, while Her Ladyship thought we should make a beeline for the pet shop. I agreed with Eldest. There's a lot going on here at the moment, I told Her Ladyship. Why don't we wait a few weeks (or months, I thought) before bringing a new pet into the house. She wasn't happy, but agreed to wait.

On Thursday I went by the pet store for some more guinea pig food. I was NOT, I told myself, going to look at the baby hamsters.


Her name is Oreo.